


Neutralization

by monimala



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Cheating, Dominance, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: Set in late December 2019/early January 2020, while Lucas is still in a coma.Brad is exhausted. Julian has an unorthodox solution. And I am not at all apologetic for coming up with this. #sorrynotsorry
Relationships: Brad Cooper/Julian Jerome, Bradley "Brad" Cooper/Lucas Jones
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Neutralization

Wiley’s finally down for the count, and it takes Brad an inhuman amount of restraint to not follow him. Somehow, he keeps from sinking down to the carpet right by the crib and just passing out. Instead, he stumbles out of the nursery, blurry eyed and bleary brained, feeling that semi-permanent acid churn of nausea and caffeine in his gut. A result of dehydration and lack of sleep. He’s so tired. Exhausted. And yet he can’t manage more than an hour or two a night. He’s been living on coffee and Red Bull and protein bars. _Oh. Right. I should eat._ He swipes a bar off the counter, pulling at the wrapper and shoving cranberry-chocolate cardboard into his mouth. He’s managed to choke down half of it when there’s a knock on the door. 

_Just when I got Wiley to sleep, too. Damn it._

Brad has never been more thrilled to have a small living room. It only takes a few steps to yank the door open and hiss “Quiet!” at whoever Is standing there.

Unfortunately, it happens to be Julian Jerome. He’s never taken orders from Brad and isn’t about to start now.

“You look like hell,” Julian observes, his voice at normal volume…which, lucky for Brad and Wiley’s sake, has never been loud. Just even and menacing. Like a white bank manager about to deny your loan application or a store clerk about to call security because he thinks you shoplifted but doesn’t have proof.

“Sorry. I had to cancel my spa day, what with all the childcare and hospital room vigils and work shifts.” Brad is too worn out to curb his tongue. To play at politeness with his father-in-law during an unannounced visit. “What do you want?”

Julian’s thin eyebrows rise, and his equally thin lips press into a disapproving bow. “I was concerned about you,” he says in that bank manager tone as he storms into the apartment.

 _Bullshit_. Julian doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him. Brad has to laugh. He clings to the door as he shuts it and locks it, the fit of hilarity draining him of what little energy he has left. “What do you _really_ want?” he asks, flattening himself against the wood, pretending like he means to be there, leaning all casual-like, instead of needing it to hold himself up. 

“That’s a long list.” Julian smiles grimly. “And I don’t think you need to hear most of what’s on it.”

“Probably not,” he agrees. “How about just the highlights? Or what you want right now, in my living room?”

“I want you to relax.” The reply is hilarious, considering how tightly wound Julian is. The flannel shirts and jeans he’s started wearing as the humble proprietor of Charlie’s do nothing to hide the stiff shoulders that look like they belong in a tailored suit jacket. And his fists are clenched at his sides. 

“Because you’re so concerned with my mental health?” Brad scoffs instead of pointing out the inconsistencies, the thousand tiny hypocrisies that make up Julian Jerome’s DNA.

“Because my son and grandson love you. And they’re counting on you to keep it together. When was the last time you slept? Are you sick? You’d better not be sick!” Julian moves toward him and shocks the hell out of him when he presses the back of his hand to Brad’s forehead, like a mom checking their kid for a fever.

He doesn’t have a fever. He still burns. Because Julian’s skin against his is like a chemical reaction. Two elements that shouldn’t be combined without proper precautions. Gloves. A Hazmat suit. Safety goggles. Sparks light behind Brad’s eyelids and he chokes on air that’s suddenly too thick for his lungs. And he leans in. Instead of pulling away. Pulling the chain on the safety shower. All the things you’re supposed to do for a chemical burn. He tilts forward, like the only things keeping him upright are Julian’s hand and the door. Maybe that’s true. Maybe they are. Maybe all he has to do now is let go.

“Fuck,” Julian whispers. His unsmiling mouth, always unsmiling, is too close. Brad can feel the puff of breath on his own lips. And he can see the cold fire surprise in Julian’s eyes. The surprise…and then the acceptance. The hand drops away from his forehead…only to curl around the back of his neck in a way that’s too firm and too gentle at the same time. It’s commanding and comforting. Telling him who’s in charge. “You’re my responsibility now,” Julian says softly and dangerously. “Do you understand what that means?” 

“Yes.” Julian’s done this before. Dominated someone. Enjoyed it, too. Lucas isn’t the only kinky queer in the Jerome village. Who would’ve guessed? And the thought of his husband, his _comatose_ husband, should stop Brad in his tracks, but he’s already frozen in Julian’s grip. Already responding to the pressure of the thumb on his throat. Already giving up the last tiny shreds of his control. “Yes,” he says again. “I understand.” 

“Do I have to exhaust you to make you sleep?” The bank manager is _his_ manager now. “Should I wear you out, Brad?” They aren’t really questions. They’re warnings, preceding Julian nudging him to his knees. And Julian doesn’t have to give him the last warning at all. Because he already knows it. Sees it outlined, hard and cruel, against Julian’s thigh. _Can you take my dick out? Can you think about nothing besides choking on it?_

It’s pain and it’s bliss. Gagging around Julian’s cock. Feeling it hit the back of his throat over and over again. Smelling him and tasting him and hearing his harsh encouragement over the sound of Brad’s own thundering pulse in his ears. Every other thought flies out of his head except doing as Julian demands. _Take it, take it, take it_. He has no other job. Nothing else to do. Nothing else to worry about except this. It’s a relief. It’s a release.

He’s barely conscious when it’s over. Flying. Floating. Falling. He tastes the salt of Julian’s come and then cool water, the rim of a bottle being held against his parched lips. The couch cushions are soft against his back, though he has no memory of lying down. A throw being pulled to his chin and tucked around him makes no sense at all, because why would Julian Jerome do something so tender? But Brad is too wrung out to reckon with it. To wonder about the palm skating over the top of his head or debate the murmur of “good boy.” He just welcomes oblivion…and sleeps for seven uninterrupted hours. 

There are no dreams. There are no nightmares. And when he eventually awakens, jolted into awareness by Wiley babbling on the baby monitor, there are no regrets. There’s just the promise of next time, scribbled in stark lines on a Post-It stuck to the coffee table.

The first part of the note is no surprise: “Rest, refuel, relax.” With the last word underlined twice. It’s the second part that sends a shiver of fear down Brad’s spine. Followed by a shiver of anticipation. “And you’ll answer to me.” _And_. Not _or_. 

Julian will take care of him. Take care of everything. All Brad has to do is _be_.

\--end--


End file.
